Winter 1998 Edition Selections
by Brendan Galvin
. . . when I was a beatnik, junior grade,
I thought how the little fox
was growing tame, abroad
by day because a woman we know
leaves cold cuts out for it.
by Eamon Grennan
You navigate as you can each day’s agitation,
a body between seasons, not knowing where you end
and the disturbed world begins to stream away
in things, the way–random and mechanical—
by Gerald Stern
January 2 there was a body moving north
near the entrance to the Delaware Canal Museum
and though it was swimming I couldn’t tell if it was
a carp or a rat, . . .
by Peter Baida
Jefferson House is a twelve–story, middle–income, red–brick apartment building in a town named Flynn City, fifteen miles west of Detroit. The neighborhood is pleasant, with broad streets and plenty of shade. You rarely hear screeching brakes or raised voices. No one litters. No one feels menaced. People are unhurried and polite.
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